Maybe I'm Dead
by catchme21
Summary: A camera found with the ability to predict deaths show the boys more than they ever wanted to know. Auction fic to benefit a fellow fan for winner sendintheclowns. Bonus whumpage chapter now posted.
1. Flashed To Death

A few months ago, K Hanna Korossy hosted an auction to help out a fellow writer. The auction was a huge success, and we appreciate everyone's bids!!

This is my auction fic. Thank you so much to sendintheclowns, who made a very generous contribution!

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I just borrow without permission on occasion.  
Beta: The amazing Jules.  
Warnings: None, except for a little language. Set in between ELAC and Bloodlust, all the way back in S2. Spoilers are sold seperately.

* * *

"Are you sure we're on the right street?" Stuart asked his wife for the fifteenth time.

"Yes, I'm sure. The sign said 'Maple', and here we are, on Maple."

Stuart rolled his eyes and simply smiled affectionately at his wife, Kim. Her once blonde hair now had a healthy silver streak, whereas his head was entirely covered by gray now, but their matching set of blue eyes still sparkled with mischief. They had been married for thirty-six years, and still loved every minute.

So instead of continuing to argue, he smiled again and maneuvered their cherry-red Ford Escape around the tight knit, uptown neighborhood. As they rounded a gentle curve in the street, their destination came into view.

"Aha! See? I told you."

"Yeah, Kim, you told me. Too bad we drove a couple miles on Maple before we found it."

The light bickering carried on as Stuart pulled the SUV around in a tight u-turn, then parallel parked next to a large, two-story house. Kim whistled as they both climbed out of the vehicle, impressed by the large, Victorian style manor with the expansive garden.

In front of the home set neatly in the trimmed green grass stood several tables and racks; all covered with various types of clothes, toys, and jewelry trees. Every table had the prices marked clearly; most of it was going pretty cheap.

"That's one of the things I love about you," Stuart stated with pride as he wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "You and your obsession with yard sales."

"Yeah, well you can't beat some of the neat things I've saved a ton of money on, things that would cost a bundle in fancy stores. Things people are just willing to throw away."

Fumbling with the keys to open their own, two-story crowded townhouse, Kim sighed as she remembered the beautiful house they had spent the afternoon at. She had loved browsing through the woman's things, items that were very well cared for and were in excellent condition. The retired real estate agent had cheerfully shared a brief history of each purchase; even being able to tell which country she had purchased it in.

"I'm so glad this thing came with paper," her husband said as he came up behind her. Grabbing the keys from her overflowing hands, he flashed a dimpled grin as he easily opened the door.

"Yeah, Polaroid doesn't make these cameras anymore." Though Kim's arms were full of bags of tiny knickknacks and a few new shirts, her husband had only found one item. An old camera that looked like it was from the 80's, one that took instant pictures that printed within seconds. The owner had eagerly parted with the item, wishing them the best of luck. They had pondered over the statement on the long trip home, but had dismissed it quickly when their house came into view.

"Well, let's try this sucker out," Stuart said excitedly as soon as his wife had set the bags down. "Go ahead and pose over by the dresser, and we'll just give it a shot."

As his wife stood by the dresser, Stuart made sure the flowers were centered in the background and the paper was loaded correctly. "Say daiquiri!"

Smiling and proclaiming her favorite drink, she barely flinched as the flash burned small bright circles into her retinas. "Well?"

Stuart pulled the square picture from the ejection slot. Before handing it off to his wife, he studied it and frowned. "This can't be right. What the hell is this??"

"What's wrong?" she asked nervously. They hadn't paid that much for the camera but he had been so excited about it, she hoped it didn't have any defects.

His frown deepened as he handed the picture to Kim. Her eyes widened and one hand flew to her mouth as she dropped the large print. It fluttered harmlessly to the ground and was promptly disregarded.

Wrapping a comforting arm around his wife's shoulders, Stuart whispered softly, "It's alright honey, no harm, it's a simple prank camera, that's all."

"What a horrible prank."

Promising he would dispose of the camera first thing in the morning, he urged his wife to start dressing for bed. With a disgusted frown, he swept the picture underneath the bed.

:.:..:.:

The technician at the front desk looked bored as he picked at his gnawed-off fingernails. The tall figure draped in a simple black suit approaching the front desk grimaced as he watched the man pull something from underneath his thumbnail and sniff at it. Before the young man could place the delectable object in his mouth, the visitor cleared his throat.

Looking guilty, the tech dropped his fingers below the desk and out of view. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to see a homicide victim brought in yesterday." Bringing a sheet of paper into view, the man pursed his lips and clicked his tongue as he searched for the name. "K. Lakerson."

"Can I see some I.D.?"

Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulled a small folded leather wallet and flicked it open. As the small gold badge tumbled into view, the technician's eyes widened.

"Detective Dean Simon…dude…FB-freakin'-I?"

Snapping the wallet closed, the agent shoved it back in his pocket with an impatient gesture. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, can we move this along?"

"Sure man, no problem. But you may need this." The tech handed over a small blue medical style mask and a small jar of Vicks VapoRub. At the rise of the investigator's eyebrow, the tech explained: "We just brought in an old lady who was found dead in her apartment, we estimated she died about three months ago."

Staring at the kid with disbelief, but taking the hint, Dean helped himself to a thick dose of the Vicks on his upper lip and placed the mask over his mouth and nose before making his way through the double-locked doors.

Dean could detect the faint smell of rotting, decayed flesh when he entered the room, and found himself thankful for the burning, medicinal presence of the Vicks. He could only imagine what the smell would be like without the sharp scent of menthol and eucalyptus to mask it, and the thought wasn't pleasant. Finding an older man bent over an occupied table, Dean stepped up right beside him. "Doctor."

"Ah, Detective Simon, I hope Leon didn't give you too much trouble."

"No, he was pretty helpful." Dean gestured to the mask. "I appreciate you meeting with me."

"Any way I can help." Doctor Fuhrman was calmly wrist deep in a woman's chest, pulling various organs from her body and placing them on a small scale. "Normally I don't allow for an audience, but as you stated this is a special case?"

"You bet it is. That the picture?" Contrary to their usual streak of luck, they were able to get their hands on the actual object even though it was a primary piece of evidence. The family had gotten a hold of the camera, and the doctor had been able to obtain a copy of the photograph.

The grisly black and white copy couldn't hide the cruelness of a life cut short. It was a picture of Kim Lakerson, taken supposedly i_before_/i she fell down the stairs. The shot captivated the frozen look of horror on her face that must have formed mid-air over the top of the stairs as she realized she was heading face first. Her neck had broken before she hit the landing, mercifully killing her quickly.

The husband's story was he had bought the Polaroid camera that day, and had taken a picture of his wife in front of their dresser. Instead of her smiling face, a portrait of her twisted body had developed instead. Anyone else looking at the print would have thought he took it after he found her body. He swore he had thrown the picture underneath their bed after taking it, and hadn't gotten up again until the alarm went off the next morning. That was when he had found his beloved wife at the bottom of the stairs, an empty glass lying at the top of the stairs and a broken dish lying at her feet, shattered porcelain littering every stair in between.

She had tripped on a tear in the carpet, one he had promised to fix last week.

Dean frowned and handed the photo back. "And they're trying to pin the death on the husband?"

"Yeah, but I'm going to rule this as accidental. The skin on her left foot is abraded, suggesting that the carpet scratched it. There are no bruises indicating she was pushed, and I found remnants of a matter with the consistency of cake in her stomach, giving her husband's story credit. He insists she had quite the sweet tooth, and would often get up in the middle of the night for a snack."

"Thanks Doc, we'll definitely be in touch."

"No problem Detective. Now all you have to do is figure out why the sick man took a picture of his wife after her death."

Dean gave a quick smile behind the mask and nodded, then quickly turned to leave.

Once he was back inside the reception area, he took off the mask and tossed it in the small bin. Grabbing a small white Kleenex from the box on Leon's desk, he removed the VapoRub from his lip.

"Pretty gross, huh?" Leon said without looking up from his magazine.

"You have no idea."

.:.:.:.

Sam made his way down the sloping cement stairs, turning to give one last wave to the man who had been so helpful.

Thomas Lakerson had willingly handed over the responsible camera to the private inspector hired to find out what had happened to his brother's wife. The police had given the camera back to the family, interested in only the picture of Kim Lakerson, one they believed had been taken after she died.

He carefully held the camera close to his side, keeping well away from the shutter release. That's all he'd need, to flash a picture of himself; some things were better not knowing. After having considered it for about two seconds, Sam decided he really didn't need to know how he was going to die.

Wondering how his older brother was doing at the morgue as he briskly headed down the street, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar ringtone.

"Find out anything?"

_"People freakin' reek when they die."_

"Yeah, well that's a given. What did you find out about our corpse?"

_"Oh come on Sammy, I thought we agreed this one was all yours. You have been a little lonely lately."_

"Dean."

_"Alright, untwist your panties. The coroner is going to declare her death as an accident, 'cause there were no signs of foul play. Did you get the camera?"_

"Yeah, they gave it up pretty easy. Are you on your way back to the hotel?"

_"Yeah, I'll see you there."_

.:.:.:.

Sam had just made it to the hotel when Dean pulled up in their borrowed, rusted beater. Ellen just happened to have this piece of junk stashed behind the Roadhouse, and after a few hours of tinkering with it Dean had it ready to go.

Little had they known, the Oldsmobile was on its last legs, not able to go any faster than 55mph. It had been a long drive.

Not only had the sputtering, coughing engine slowed their progress, the silence of a dead radio had been deafening. Instead of the music and laughter that usually blasted from the Impala, an uncomfortable stillness had grated across the stained maroon interior. The tension had started at Bobby's after their little discussion, and that had probably been Sam's fault. He knew his closing line in their little moment would hit home, and he was pretty sure it did.

_"I miss him man…and I feel guilty as hell. I'm not alright, not at all."_

_A quick pause, the words had been hard to grasp._

"_But neither are you, that much I know."_

Sam wasn't sure what he had tried to accomplish by going out into the yard that final time. It had been tough to watch Dean spend his days buried beneath the undercarriage of the Impala, alone, painstakingly restoring every little nut and bolt ruined from the demon driven semi that had nearly taken all of their lives. He had meant to go out and clear the air, but the expression on Dean's face as he'd turned to leave told him things just got a whole helluva lot worse.

After the last word was spoken, it had only taken a few seconds, and he had only just reached the porch to Bobby's, when he heard the first shatter of the crowbar against metal. Poking his head back around the corner of the house, he remembered his breath catching in his throat as he spied Dean taking out an unknown amount of pent up aggression upon the one thing he prized the most.

It was a sight that would haunt Sam for years.

So this small hunt had come at a perfect time. Dean was almost done with the Impala, but he hadn't worked on it in the past two days. A bit of body work, rebuilding the front passenger side wheel well, and reattaching the grill, and the Impala would be drivable again.

Seeing Dean's pause in progression, and the new trunk lid, had Sam convinced they needed this hunt more than ever. For once their luck was turning and it was a simple job after all.

Jerking at the tie constricting his neck once he was inside the room, Sam turned to face the door as his weary sibling entered, his own tie already loose around his neck.

"Honey, I'm home," Dean muttered as he headed straight for the bathroom.

"Dude, what the hell is that smell?"

Dean stopped, and spun around slowly. "Oh, you mean the remaining smell of rotting old lady? Or the pound of this vapor crap I had to use to disguise the smell?"

"Man, both. You smell like a rotting medicine cabinet."

Dean smirked. "Real nice." He headed towards the bathroom, ready to wash the stench away. "You get the camera?"

"Yeah. And our research was right, it was Sarah Knowles' camera."

Sarah Knowles had been a naive seventeen-year-old, intent on running away with her boyfriend in the late 1980s. She had jumped in the passenger seat of his Camero, never to be heard from again. The only thing that had been found had been her camera, a Polaroid Square Shooter, which had only contained a picture of her body. They had never even found the boyfriend.

They figured she was a harmless spirit, only needing to warn those of their impending deaths. They couldn't put her to rest, since her body had never been found, but they could destroy the camera.

"So did you do it?" Dean asked as he stepped from the bathroom, a towel settled on his shoulders as he reached for his bag. Coming up with the desired bottle of soap, he waited for Sam's answer before returning to the bathroom.

"No, I thought I'd wait until you got back."

Turning slightly, a look of confusion on his face, Dean asked, "Do you need me to hold your hand?"

Face burning slightly from the retort, Sam took a deep breath. "I just figured destroying this girl's camera might require backup. You never know how her spirit is going to react."

Face dropping into a scowl, Dean stormed towards the bathroom. "Just freakin' do it already," he muttered before slamming the door.

Twenty minutes later, the older hunter emerged from the bathroom in a steamed halo of Axe, the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on. His short energy burst from the renewing shower was cut short when he found his sibling seated at the room's single table, camera placed defiantly in front of him.

"Dude."

Sam shook his head. "Why are you so fired up about finishing this hunt?"

"I have a car to get back to. Why the hell are you so determined to be such a nitpicky little bitch? All you have to do is smash the damn thing and we'll be outta here."

Giving a scoff of annoyance and biting slightly at his lower lip, Sam decided he'd had enough. "You know, that's another thing that's been bothering me. Ever since our little talk when we had to ditch the van, you've been determined to be an asshole. You've got me on a real short string, and I want to know why."

"It's shit like this, Sam. I ask you to simply destroy the camera, so we can move on with our lives. Yet here you sit, determined to turn this into a Dr. Phil moment."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to, if you'd just be honest with me."

Dean tipped his head down, bared his teeth and glared angrily at Sam through his lowered brows. A classic Dean expression that meant Sam was on the verge of making the bull charge. "We've already had this discussion Sam, and I'm not going to repeat myself. So help me God, if you turn this into a Dad issue I will lay you out right now."

"I meant what I said, Dean, neither of us is even close to being fine, and I just want you to let me help you."

"I don't need your help. I'm dealing with this shit my own way; I thought you were going to get the hell off my back."

"Does that way include a crowbar?"

Dean hesitated, his expressions creating a kaleidoscope of doubt and pain to run across his tired facade. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I saw you put the hole in the trunk, man." Sam tried to soften his voice, while still adding a streak of stubbornness. He wasn't going to let this go.

"Well tell me then, did you enjoy the show?"

"That's not what I meant, Dean."

"Oh really? By the sounds of it, you were just watching me, waiting for me to snap so you could bring it up in an "I told you so" moment."

"Do you even know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"I'm thinking it was no less ridiculous than this hunt."

Sam scoffed, and stood up slowly. "Did you or did you not agree with me that this sounded like a valid hunt, that we both needed something to get us out of Bobby's for a while?"

"That's before I knew all of the facts, Sammy-boy."

"And what facts would that be?"

"That you found some lame, bullshit excuse to have us driving across two states in a broken down piece of crap car, just to check out something that probably isn't even a hunt at all. For all we know, it could be a huge coincidence, and you just wanted to get me out here so you could harp on me some more."

"Wow Sherlock, did you just come up with that?" The bitterness in Sam's voice equally matched the fire in Dean's eyes as both brothers squared off across the room. "And I thought in our line there was no room for coincidences."

"That's not the point Sam. I'm just finally able to see the real reason why you don't want to destroy this camera: once we get back to Bobby's you'll no longer have my undivided attention. You can't try to wear me down when I'm underneath that car. That's the only reason you brought me out here, and I'm getting pretty damn sick of you trying to fix me all the damn time."

"You don't need to be fixed Dean, I just want to try to help you."

"And I keep telling you to back off! I don't need your help, or any body else's. If you know what's good for you, you'll listen to what I'm trying to fucking tell you."

Sam stood in stunned silence, his heartbeat erratically passing the moments by. "Why won't you let me help you?" He knew he was beginning to sound like a broken record, but his helplessness made him desperate. He was losing Dean, and he had no idea how to stop it.

"If this is the best way you've got to help me, by dragging me to some forsaken town with a busted hunt and victims that aren't even in trouble, then I don't need your brand of help."

Sam allowed defeat to crumble his resolve; Dean wasn't leaving him any openings. The desperation he'd been feeling the past month almost double, widening the cold fissure in his chest.

"This was not a busted hunt, Dean." Sam gestured to the camera.

"Oh it's not?" In a moment of pure need to prove Sam wrong, Dean grabbed the camera and held it at an arms length away from his body. Flipping a middle finger, Dean clicked the button and felt a cold wave go through him as the flash bolted through the room.

Not realizing until it was too late what Dean was about to do, Sam dove forward in just enough time to catch the picture as he reached out to swat the camera.

Rearing back, he glared angrily at the older hunter. "I can't believe you just did that! What the hell were you thinking?"

Dean shrugged and dropped the camera onto the table. "So how does it look?"

Sam dropped his angry glare to the still-developing print. As the picture came slowly into view, Sam's color suddenly drained from his face. His jaw dropped as the print fell from his numb fingers. Just as quickly as the color had disappeared, his face was taken over by a sickly green tint. Diving for the door, Sam rushed outside without saying another word.

Suddenly overwhelmed by a sick feeling himself, Dean bent down to retrieve the photograph. Flicking it between his fingers, his hazel eyes tracked until they focused on the shot. Feeling his own stomach drop through his feet, he tossed the picture onto the worn yellow table.

Angrily, he grabbed the camera and twisted around. Without losing momentum, he swung the camera into the wall, watching in satisfaction as it burst into a million pieces of cursed oblivion.

Dropping his head in regret, he headed for the door to find his brother and do some damage control. As he passed by the table, he snatched the picture up and placed it safely in his back jeans pocket.

:..:.:..

It ached so bad he could hardly stand it. He was flying on autopilot, unable to stop his actions even if he wanted to.

The one person in his life, the one person that was his life, was gone. Ripped away so cruelly by the one thing they had spent their whole life looking for.

Shaking fingers determinedly put the box together, not for one second thinking of how this was going to end. Taking a moment to pause, he ran his fingers along the top part of the trunk. Finding the faded photograph he had stashed there months ago, he pulled it out. He had told Sam he'd destroyed this print, and that it was never going to happen. He was sure that eventually Sam had forgotten about the print; it had seemed pretty far-fetched at the time.

Dean had remembered as soon as they found out about the hellhounds. _Demonic pitbulls, _Sam had said. Their victims had been torn apart, just as Dean appeared in the picture.

Where his cocky smirk and his middle finger should have been, there was a whole different picture.

His own face stared back at him, eyes wide open and unseeing. The camera had panned out enough to show the carnage: his body torn beyond recognition. He would die in someone's living room, which was a fucking joke to be sure, bleeding all over the Martha Stewart area rug that covered a darkly stained floor.

Just like the victims in Mississippi, Dean was pretty sure he was headed for death by hellhound.

But one part of the photograph mattered, the whole reason he was here. It looked as though someone had taken the shot over his brother's shoulder, Sammy's shoulder.

Sam was cradling him, even though he himself appeared dead.

Taking a deep breath and sending a silent apology to Sam, Dean finished preparing the box. Slamming the trunk, the elder Winchester allowed the sound to reverberate through him, allowing it to be the final nail in his coffin.

Taking one more deep breath, he headed toward the center of the crossroads.

* * *

Hope you guys enjoyed.


	2. Bad Moon Rising

There really is no such thing as too much of a good thing. At least when it comes to two hot hunters there isn't.

I wanted to write this second part as a little bonus to sendintheclowns, since we had discussed what she wanted out of the auction fic and this was one thing I didn't fit into the first part. I did this purely on my own, and I hope she likes. :) Thanks again to the amazingly talented K Hanna Korossy for hosting such a generous and successful auction.

I still don't own them...I don't think they could be owned. Sam would simply roll his eyes and Dean would scoff at the thought.

This was beta'd by the amazing Jules, who always manages to fill in my missing pieces and to scramble my words so they always come out sounding like they should have. I truly owe her a lot...any mistakes left over are mine, I cannot leave well enough alone.

The medicinal part of this came from my own basic military first aid training, and should only be used as a last resort. I have no knowledge of the type of weapon used here, so any mistakes are my own.

Enjoy!!

_(also, thank you to 'winchesterfan' and 'annonymous'...who's status' don't allow me to reply...glad you enjoyed the first part!)_

* * *

_bad luck (n.)_

_1. an unfortunate state resulting from unfavorable outcomes_

_2. an unpredictable outcome that is unfortunate_

_3. an unnecessary and unforeseen trouble resulting from an unfortunate event_

_syn: misfortune, disaster, hardship, trouble, ill fortune, see also_ Winchester

Werewolves. They are repeat offenders in many cases, which can easily make hunters overconfident and sloppy. Even the mere civilian knows that any form of silver, delivered by knife, bullet, or arrow, could kill them.

Their behavior is easily tracked, and their patterns ensure they are right on time, every time. The distinctive, haunting cry that makes people shiver and bundle even further down into their safety nets, draws huntsmen from all around.

Attracted by the smell of fresh blood and an appetizing meal, they can be lured in with baited traps and killed within minutes, if the hunters don't toy with them first. They are smart creatures, and their powerful jaws make devouring an unfortunate victim mere child's play. Their hunger is insatiable; a weakness in a waging war, and it makes them desperate and careless.

The scales usually tip in favor of the side that proceeds with the most caution.

Normally no extensive research is required, only scouting out their territory during the day and studying their habits at night. It is usually a simple case, as long as you watch your partner's back and stick to the rules the creatures play by.

-.-Supernatural-.-

This particular hunt was no different from the rest. The moon was full, but hidden behind thick, dark clouds. Temperatures were way below freezing, and yet it continued to rain. The freezing sleet had covered the ground in a thin layer of ice, making navigation through the forest that much tougher.

Slipping for the fifth time in the last half-mile, Sam clung tighter to the bow and tried to peel the frozen strands of hair from his eyes.

"You good Sam?" Dean said from somewhere up ahead. The pitch-black clouds had swallowed the forest whole, leaving a small red-lensed flashlight their only illumination to travel by. They were taking a chance on using any light at all, but to navigate the harrowing path at night without one was suicide in itself. Red simply made it harder for the colorblind sonsabitches to spot them.

Sam focused on the small red beacon ahead of him, muttering a quick confirming 'yes'. Sweeping his hair back again, he burrowed deeper into his jacket and cursed the day ice was invented.

Dean, listening to the muttered annoyances coming from behind, smiled despite their current predicament. He was as cold and miserable as a guy could possibly get, but this thing needed to die tonight. The harmless werewolf had been spotted by many of the local populace over the past several years, but for some reason had chosen this Halloween to go out and snatch many of the kids trick-or-treating. Four had been found dead, and three more were missing.

The last full moon of the cycle had driven them out into the frozen rain, giving them no choice but to complete the kill while small shards of ice pelted their exposed skin.

They waded through the tall, dead grass, hidden puddles, and downed tree limbs. Finally, when they reached the edge of the clearing they'd chosen as the best spot for the ambush, they were soaked to the bone. Dean's grip tightened around his revolver as violent chills wracked his body, and he could hear Sam's teeth chattering from his immediate right. They had enough silver on them to kill a few dozen werewolves, and had spent several hours during the day completing this path and committing it to memory. They were prepared.

Dean shifted uncomfortably when he realized that his socks were wet, and he gave a slight wiggle to confirm that even his boxers were soggy and clinging.

_Damnit._

As the brothers hunkered down in the tall brush, their eyes traveled anxiously over the clearing. There had been abundant signs of the beast's activity here, so they waited in silence, straining to hear the slightest sounds in the shifting forest around them. The moon chose that moment to break through the clouds, shedding a silvery light through the dense foliage.

"Dean," Sam said in a hushed whisper.

"I hear it," Dean growled in response.

A child's cry echoed around them, seconds before a large shadow broke through the dead branches on the far side of the opening. The hunters watched in disbelief as the wolf stalked across the opening, on its hind legs. Cradled against its chest was a small girl, her hands fisted in its long, thick black hair and her face tucked away. The girl's sobbing increased, and the werewolf continued unheeding.

"We have to wait for a clear shot, but don't wait so long that it has a chance to kill the girl," Dean instructed quietly. Sam turned to Dean, his incredulous look clearly asking if Dean was serious. The older hunter knew he didn't have to say anything, he just felt better saying it out loud.

The wolf reached a bush towards the center of the clearing, and carefully set the girl down. She was shaking; her blonde hair fell in tangles around her small, plump face. Small bare feet peeked from beneath a thin pink nightgown, and she was crying for her mom, each breath creating a puff of crystallized air. She looked to be only about five years old.

Dean raised his revolver and was just about to fire, when Sam put a restraining hand on his arm. "What?" Dean hissed.

"What is it doing?"

Dean turned back to the werewolf to find it perched near the girl. The girl's crying had dissolved into hysterical hiccupping, and the wolf was gently running a bulky paw over her face. The large dog was making a low growling/shushing noise deep in its throat, which only served to scare the girl even more.

"What the hell is it doing?"

Sam shook his head, his eyes transfixed on the scene before them.

"Let's do this," Dean snarled with impatience, standing and rising from the safety of their cover.

Sam followed, raising their newest purchase, a sleek Excaliber Exocet Light crossbow. The man at the hunting store had insisted it wouldn't help them take down any animals larger than a bear, but their silver tipped arrows weren't for the bears.

The animal immediately raised its head and bared a row of sharp fangs at the intruders as its ears flattened against its skull.

"Sam! Now!"

At Dean's shout, the werewolf snatched up the little girl and took off running. The arrow Sam had hastily released sailed harmlessly into the thick foliage where the beast had been hunched moments ago.

"Shit!" both hunters said in unison as they took off after their prey. They lost sight of the werewolf quarter of a mile in, and could no longer hear the little girl. Spinning in slow circles, back to back, the boys kept their weapons raised while they scanned the dark shadows with wary eyes. The rain had at least finally tapered off, leaving the air cold and heavy in its absence.

A shuffling from the tree line above drew their attention as a large shadow leapt at them. A huge paw landed in the center of Dean's chest as it used Sam for leverage, kicking with both back paws until both hunters were knocked to the ground.

Tucking and rolling immediately to his feet, Dean grabbed his fallen revolver and turned towards his downed brother. "Sam?"

Sam fumbled on the ground, his fingers sloshing through thick, frozen mud for his lost weapon. The impact of the wolf's paws on his chest had left him breathless and reeling, and at some point his numb fingers had lost their purchase on the crossbow.

Recognizing his sibling's predicament, Dean took up providing cover. He edged closer to Sam, allowing the slimmest of contact between his knee and his brother's shoulder. _Hurry up Sam…_

"It's not here Dean," Sam hissed as he finally got to his feet. He stood with his back to a tree, and Dean unconsciously moved in front of him. Hearing an almost inaudible _click_, the hunters turned towards the faint sound.

The sight that met his gaze froze the older brother for that vital instant. Making his move too late, he tried to push his younger sibling out of the way. Sam's mud-caked shoes tangled, knocking him back against the tree. A _fthwp_ came through the still air, followed closely by a startled grunt as pain blossomed in Dean's upper left shoulder. A gasp was heard a second later.

"_A second is all it takes. You may be the hunter, you may have the upper hand, but in a second you could be the one facing death."_ His father's words came back to haunt him in crystal clarity. The next few seconds seemed to stretch out in sluggish details.

Suddenly realizing his eyes were screwed shut, Dean made an effort to open them. A blurry image swam in and out of focus, refusing to sharpen. When the shape made no effort to move towards him, Dean lethargically took stock of his other parts. A glance to the sharp, throbbing pain in his shoulder informed him he was being pinned to the tree using one of Sam's arrows. He would recognize the green-fringed fletching anywhere.

_Concentrate_, Dean berated himself. Had Sam shot him again? The shape in front of him wavered, but remained the same size, not moving any closer. _Good, Sammy, stay over there. Whatever issues you have this time can be worked out from a safe distance._

A groan reverberated through his chest, but he was pretty sure he hadn't made that noise. The deep sound rippled again, this time taking on the form of a very familiar word.

"Deeean…"

Horror dawned, slamming the world into brilliant focus as Dean made a startling discovery. His back wasn't pressed up against the hard, unforgiving surface of a large, half dead pine tree. Instead, his body was held captive against the softer, barely moving chest of his younger brother. In a moment of pure panic, he twisted slightly to get a better look at Sam.

The movement jarred the arrow, eliciting a pained cry that diminished into a hitched sob.

"Gaaaaaah…Dean…"

"Sam, where are you hit?"

"Aah…center…right….siiihide…"

The possibility that the arrow may have nicked a lung stilled Dean. When impaled, sometimes that object was the only thing to keep a victim from hemorrhaging out. The fact that Sam was still talking was a good sign; it meant the serrated arrow hadn't clipped any major arteries.

Glancing back to the front, he noticed that the blurred object from earlier was gone. Cursing quietly for allowing himself to take his eyes from the threat, he found his attention caught by a glint of silver.

It was Sam's missing crossbow, a fresh arrow already loaded and cocked. The animal had shot them with their own weapon. The sling Sam had been using to carry the arrows lay discarded five feet from the weapon. Dean's own revolver lay not two feet from them, but it might as well have been a mile for the good it did them.

The wolf lumbered back into view, carrying the little girl once again. The girl was silent, her large eyes unseeing as the wolf placed her on the frozen ground fifty yards from the hunters. It clearly no longer saw them as a threat and had decided on dinner and a show.

Dean could feel Sam sagging behind him, the younger hunter's blood hot and slick as it trailed thickly down his back. "Sam!" he said, short and abrupt to catch the young man's attention. Sam snapped back to reality with a groan, his hand weakly batting at Dean's.

They had to act now while the werewolf was distracted with the girl. "Here's the plan. I'm going to snap the end of the arrow off, free myself, then I'll be back for you. Can you stay awake?"

"Mm-hmm," Sam mumbled without the slightest hint of protest.

"Sam!"

"'M up."

"I need you to stay awake! Once I'm off this arrow…you need to stay still. We don't know how much damage…has been done, and if you pass out it could…kill you. Can you stay…awake for me?" Talking hurt like a bitch, but at this point even breathing didn't seem like much fun.

Sam stayed silent, and for a second Dean was worried he'd lost him again. "What dd-you…plan to…wh-when you're free?"

Dean sighed. "Kill the ugly…son of a bitch. What else?"

With resignation to his situation clearly in his tone, Sam's voice was barely audible. "I'll stay…if you…come back…fer me."

A knot formed in Dean's throat. That was a promise he'd gladly keep. "I swear it Sammy."

During their exchange, the wolf had straightened to its full height, turning back towards them. For the first time, the hunters were able to appreciate the beast's massive size. It easily stood well over seven feet tall; its broad shoulders double the size of Dean's. The fine black coat gleamed flawlessly, almost appearing blue in the low lighting.

It watched them almost curiously. Noticing it now had their attention, the werewolf stalked up to them, its gait unhurried but malicious.

"Hey there, buddy," Dean said uneasily. "Nice puppy. Good Fido." He felt Sam falling again, and sent a sharp elbow backwards and up.

The wolf reached for the arrow as Sam jerked back awake, moaning as the arrow was jarred. Both hunters tensed when the sharp claws wrapped around the base of the arrow, and they both held their breaths in anticipation of the protruding object being ripped from their bodies.

Instead, the wolf almost grinned and twisted the projectile, digging it deeper into flesh and tree bark. The metal grated against the wood grain, twisting and distorting as it dug into the tree.

Dean gasped, and Sam cried out in agony before slumping heavily against him. Through clenched teeth, Dean growled his brother's name in desperation. The wolf backed off, its head cocking to the side as it studied its handiwork. A thick line of blood dribbled down the front of Dean's coat, leaving an oily trail and dripping onto his jeans. Sam's head tipped until it rested on Dean's shoulder, his gasps gurgling in his throat.

"Dean," he whispered, "Think…hit…lung."

Dean's stomach clenched until he thought he was going to hurl.

Grabbing the arrow once more, the beast pushed and twisted until both Winchesters screamed in pain. Clamping his lips shut, Dean let his head drop as he fought to control his breathing. Sam's head rested heavily on his shoulder, but a cuss word repeated in a hitching, breathy mantra reassured him that Sam was still with him.

The wolf turned ungracefully, almost drunkenly, and headed back in the direction of the crossbow that lay harmlessly on the ground. Gritting his teeth, Dean grabbed the arrow firmly. Before he could change his mind, he allowed the feelings of helplessness and anger add adrenaline to his veins as he strained. Finally, the butt of the arrow snapped off, leaving him breathless as fresh pain flared in his torn muscle.

The werewolf was once again taking aim with the crossbow. With a quick jab in Sam's direction, Dean reiterated their deal. He was rewarded with a jab back.

Placing his foot between Sam's, he used the tree as leverage and let out a pained growl as he hauled himself off the arrow. The splintered wood released his shoulder with a soggy pop, and the world spun around him. Dean dropped to one knee as bile rose in the back of his throat.

The werewolf roared in anger and lunged towards the downed hunter, crossbow temporarily forgotten. Dean rolled to one side, ignoring the sickening display of swirling lights dancing across his vision and the extreme vertigo as he reached for his revolver.

Just as he rolled back to take aim, the werewolf landed on top of him. He curled a bloodied finger around the cool metal of the trigger, and squeezed. The repercussion jarred his whole body, but the silver bullet tore through the wolf's face, blasting its left cheek and ear into oblivion and knocking the beast sideways.

As soon as Dean was free from the wolf's weight, he scrambled to his feet. The creature lay on the ground, panting, snarling, and shaking its ruined head, flinging droplets of blood and cartilage over the frozen ground. Dean took aim again, but the werewolf dove to the side and the silver bullet pinged harmlessly into the frozen mud. It rebound on its haunches, overtaking the weary hunter before he could take aim again.

The hunter growled in pain as he landed on his wounded shoulder, his intended prey on top. The wolf wrapped a paw around the left side of his shoulder and began to grind. The world immediately blackened and he couldn't hear anything past his own screams as his wound split open. He blindly reached up and grasped at the wolf's face, tearing into shredded skin and a thick, gore-matted coat. The werewolf howled and released him, jumping back as it cradled its injured jaw.

Vision returned slowly, time Dean couldn't afford. Using his right arm, he pulled himself into a seated position. Continuing to haul his body backwards, he didn't stop until his back was touching a nearby tree. Pushing with his legs, right hand braced against the tree, the injured hunter brought himself fully upright.

The two faced off for a tense moment, the urge to kill the other thrumming heavily between them.

The wind picked up, and Dean chanced a fleeting look towards his injured brother. Sam was still sagging against the tree, his pain-filled eyes peering weakly from under ice-crusted bangs. But the only thing Dean cared about at that exact moment was the fact that Sam was keeping true to his promise. He was still on his feet.

Flicking his gaze back to the menace, Dean decided he'd had enough. He was rapidly losing blood, for all he knew Sam had a collapsed lung, and the little girl was blue and unconscious underneath the tree.

Really having no plan of action, his mind reeled as he ran through possible scenarios. The cold was seeping into his subconscious, and his reaction time was slowing. His body was slipping into shock, a hunter's worst nightmare.

Digging down deep, Dean found his inner John. His last reserves of adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he dove for the shotgun that was lying just out of reach. His fingertips brushed the frozen metal of the barrel, but a brick wall hit him before he could wrap his fingers around it.

The werewolf leaned heavily on him, bearing all its weight down on the hunter's injured shoulder. The burst of adrenaline faded as quickly as it had arrived, leaving Dean weak and raw.

The werewolf threw its head back and howled, a long, lonely sound that grated through Dean's head and sent waves of pain down to the core of his being. The wolf's head dropped as it exposed its long, jagged teeth. Snarling, the werewolf lowered its head until its jaws were within striking distance of Dean's neck.

"Hey…Snoooopy…"

The wolf turned at the last minute, but couldn't dodge the shot in time. Sam pulled the trigger on the crossbow, discharging a silver-tipped arrow that sliced through the frigid air and impaled the creature's heart dead center.

The werewolf screamed as it fell to the side, the removal of its crushing weight bringing immediate relief to the hunter trapped underneath. The wolf gave a huff as death claimed its final breath, and its eyes glazed over just as Sam hit the ground mere feet away.

Thick, inky clouds rolled over the moon once more, plunging the clearing into darkness. Taking a precious moment to allow his eyes to adjust, Dean stood and warily approached the wolf's carcass, cradling his busted ribs. He could just make out the bright green fletching on the end of the arrow planted firmly in the center of the werewolf's chest, and the sight made his own chest fill with warmth. Dead evil creatures always gave him the warm fuzzies.

The feeling quickly faded as situational awareness returned. Glancing to his right he spotted his downed brother. His gaze flickered briefly to the tree, and to the broken arrow still embedded there. Sam had followed his lead and pulled himself off the shaft, just in time to save Dean's life.

"I thought I told you to stay," Dean said softly as he limped towards Sam. His brother's long, lanky body was twisted in a growing puddle of black glass. "You promised."

Shuffling past the tall pine with the newly acquired limb, his eyes never refocused on the silhouette of blood that framed the embedded arrow.

Dean's forward momentum faltered as a wave of weakness tore through him; he barely escaped a face plant and ended up finishing the trip on his uninjured hand and knees. As he neared the unmoving form of his brother, the full moon broke through the clouds once more, illuminating the carnage that tainted the glowing brightness of the frosted ground.

Taking a moment to assess his brother's status, he was mildly relieved to find only the jagged hole left behind by the arrow. At this point he didn't think he could handle any more injuries than the puncture that seemed to be mocking him as it rapidly filled his brother's chest with air. Recognizing the signs, Dean didn't have to watch the blood bubble at the wound or hear the sucking sound to know what was happening.

Immediately jumping into medic mode, Dean sent a thousand quick thank yous to their father for his endless hours of first aid training. His frozen fingers grasped desperately at his back pocket as he reached for his wallet. Not even caring which card he pulled out, Dean pressed the coated plastic of one of his many forged ID's over the hole in his brother's jacket.

Numb fingers tugged frantically at the zipper of his leather jacket as he fought to grab the small roll of medical tape he had stashed there. Feeling grateful once again that they had filled their pockets entirely with the meager contents of their first aid kit, he sighed in relief when his frozen digits finally gained purchase, his own wound throbbing in time to the rapid beat of his heart.

The world suddenly did a slow, sickening twirl, and Dean blinked feverishly, gritting his teeth in determination. He couldn't give in. Letting out a slow hiss of air between clenched teeth, he pushed the pain into an ignored corner of his mind and concentrated on the task in front of him.

Realizing he didn't have much time, Dean reached towards his other pocket. Hopelessness crashed through him as he pulled out his mutilated phone, the small bits of plastic had been no match for the battle with the werewolf. Spot danced in front of his eyes as he reached for Sam's phone, relief giving him the final boost he needed when he found it unharmed.

He could ignore the pain, but his body was quickly failing him. Failing Sam.

Ignoring Sam's blood that coated the darkened screen, Dean relied on muscle memory to dial a number he was all too familiar with.

The operator's voice sounded small and tinny, and he almost dropped the phone more then once. "Half a mile north of Tinder's Bluff," he was able to mumble when she asked him their location. After her reassurance that she had locked onto his cell phone and emergency crews were on the way, Dean allowed the phone to fall from the cradle of his shoulder.

"_Sir? Sir?"_ the faint, tinny voice queried, and he was grateful the connection hadn't been lost.

Jerking Sam's shirts and jacket up, Dean ignored the weak moan of pain as he relocated the card directly over the wound, taped down three sides, and left the bottom side open for drainage. Dean watched with satisfaction as Sam's next inhale sucked the card against the bloody hole, blocking any more air from entering. The frozen, stiff plastic didn't allow for any air to escape during exhales, but it wasn't allowing any more in either. He smoothed Sam's layers of clothing back in place, knowing his little brother couldn't afford to lose any more body heat.

Leaning back and resting on his haunches, Dean sucked in a deep breath as vertigo took him for a violent ride for the fiftieth time that night. Pushing through it, he slowly pulled Sam towards him. As the shaggy head came to rest against his chest, Dean dove in from above and placed a second card over the exit wound at the bottom of Sam's right shoulder. Clumsily taping the three sides down, Dean sagged in relief as his work was completed.

The angle Sam rested against him gave him the support he needed, and once he realized he couldn't do anything more he soon felt himself drifting away.

He just needed to rest for a few minutes…

-.-Supernatural-.-

Sounds were muffled, coming and going as he fought to control the brutal shivers that wracked his body. A roaring gradually filled his ears, making him wince, but he could do little to block out the sound. A searing light pierced his eyes behind closed lids, but he couldn't find the energy to open them.

Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him away from Sam. He struggled weakly, but was unable to stop them as he was guided back, coming to rest on something hard. Panic overtook him when he felt thick straps being placed over him, holding him immobile. He struggled briefly, the tiny burst of energy caused by the adrenaline rush fading as rapidly as it had arisen, and he began to drift again.

His eyelids were forced open, and the light pierced his optic nerves, sending thousands of sharp needles to the back of his skull. He moaned softly as a voice stated that his pupils were reactive but sluggish. He hoped to hell they were informing Sam, because he couldn't fathom why he should even care.

His muddled mind refused to cooperate. Memories surfaced then disappeared, leaving him with a vague feeling that he was missing something important. The world shifted, moving beneath him as the hard surface he was strapped against jostled and dipped.

Forcing his eyes open, he frowned as he watched large blades rotate right above his head at an alarming speed, and recognized at last where the sound was coming from. His vision blurred, his world sinking into oblivion before he could even find he cared.

-.-Supernatural-.-

Chewing on the inside of his cheek in boredom, Dean glanced at Sam for the fifteenth time that hour. There was absolutely nothing worth watching on the small television that only received six channels. His food had long since congealed into an inedible lump, and poking it to watch it quiver had only managed to entertain him for so long.

Sam had been asleep for the past two days, only able to remain awake for short periods of time. The surgery to repair the torn tissue and muscle had been quick and easy, or so the surgeon had assured him. The plastic ID cards he had managed to tape in place, both thankfully matching the insurance they were currently using, had stopped the suction of air into Sam's chest cavity, and had aided in the prevention of a collapsed lung.

A lung the arrow had narrowly missed.

Dean's shoulder was heavily bandaged and his arm was held immobile against his chest. His own muscle damage would take time to heal, but with the recommended therapy he would regain full use of it.

Officer Tig-ol-bitties had stopped by, and Dean wished he could have remembered her name. She had peppered him with a light amount of questions, and had graciously filled him in with what information the authorities had gathered so far.

Heather McCullon was a single mother who had lost her children in a car accident the year before. Not far from where the boys had been rescued and airlifted out, the paramedics had found her body with a single arrow piercing her heart. Just beyond her body, they had discovered the near-dead form of Melissa Cart, her last victim. Knowing Melissa was up in the children's ICU, and expected to make a full recovery, brought him a small semblance of comfort.

Dean had told the cops that he and his brother had been out in the woods that day, practicing with their newest purchase, the Excaliber crossbow. They had heard the little girl crying, and had found the crazed, naked woman carrying her towards the tree line. When they tried to stop her, the woman had attacked the brothers and shot them with their own weapon.

He insisted he didn't remember much, only that the woman had been out of her mind and had rushed them before they knew what hit them. Officer McChesty had informed him that they found the remains of the other children, and had theorized that she had probably taken them to replace the ones she had lost, stealing them right off the streets as they ran around trick-or-treating. Grief did terrible things to a mother, the cop had stated solemnly.

A light pat on the knee, some words of reassurance and wishes for a speedy recovery, and the officer had gone. Dean counted his blessings and was glad that for once they were viewed as semi-heroes. The cop had also insisted they wouldn't be bothered again, but would probably be wanted for the end of the investigation, and possible trial if the family pushed for it.

Dean had nodded, but he knew they'd be long gone by then. The ID's he'd used to plug Sam's wounds had been returned to him, and their matching fake insurance cards would be ditched in time for new ones.

That left him sitting in the darkened room, the useless TV muted, staring at the stretched out younger hunter.

Sam's eyes slit open, and his head slowly turned to acknowledge the piercing gaze of his older brother. He smiled lazily before his eyelids fluttered closed.

Dean grinned. Maybe Sam would be ready to go tomorrow, hell knew older brother was ready to go now. But in the meantime, he was still bored. Dean sat back with a sigh, picked up his fork and swirled it through the congealed lump of food. "Wonder if the doctors' lounge has cable…"

A girl could get used to doing that to them.

Thanks for reading,  
Kris


End file.
